


Here

by ibreathethroughwords



Series: Moments [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Accidental Parenting, Found Family, Gen, Injured Character, It’s Slash If You Squint, Jedi Sorcery, M/M, No One Meant To Care, Post-Battle Stillness, Post-Star Wars: Rebels, Pre-Slash, Quiet Moment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-26 00:04:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21364891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ibreathethroughwords/pseuds/ibreathethroughwords
Summary: “They don’t know if he’ll wake up,” Thrawn finally replied. Uncertainty clouded his tone. A hand reached up to touch Gilad’s before the movement was aborted. Gilad raised his eyebrows since Thrawn couldn’t see his face, but otherwise pretended he didn’t notice. Comfort. He was being trusted with Grand Admiral Thrawn seeking comfort.
Relationships: Ezra Bridger & Gilad Pellaeon, Ezra Bridger & Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo, Gilad Pellaeon & Thrawn | Mitth’raw’nuruodo, Gilad Pellaeon/Thrawn | Mitth’raw’nuruodo
Series: Moments [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1590589
Comments: 16
Kudos: 76





	Here

**Author's Note:**

> “I won’t write a post-Rebels fic.” —Me, up until I wrote this post-battle scene because it wouldn’t leave me the hell alone. They’re about 8 months into their little adventure. Faro made a well-timed exit at Lothal so she’s not there. See end notes for more rambling.

The monitor next to the boy’s bed was silenced, though Gilad knew if he looked he would see the lines steadily making their way across the screen. Everything in this small room in sickbay was neatly arranged once Bridger was brought out of surgery and moved in here to recover. There was no way the culprit was the 2-1Bs or the human medics responsible for the young man’s care: they were all far too busy with the other men and women injured during their last run-in with the Grysks. Bridger certainly didn’t do it himself unless he’d taken to subconsciously rearranging his surroundings. It was possible, Gilad supposed, but unlikely given the lack of activity on the monitor for his brainwaves.

Someone had been fretting, and the uncharacteristic behavior worried him. He studied his commander through the glass door with a small frown. For all that the Grand Admiral and the Jedi Padawan were still at each other’s throats it seemed that Thrawn must care a little.

Or he was more bothered by the thought of losing their ability to return to Empire than any of them thought.

The captain exhaled quietly and glanced over to the deathtrooper by the door controls. A quick glance at the serial number etched into the shoulder told him that it was Pik on duty. He held up a hand to forestall the man from opening the door and alerting Thrawn to his presence. By all appearances, the captain hadn’t been noticed. There was no need to disturb the Chiss yet, not if he was sleeping. Gilad wanted information first: information he wouldn’t get from Thrawn.

Pik tilted his head quizzically. The door remained shut, and Gilad relaxed somewhat at his obedience. “Has he slept?” he inquired in a low voice, murmuring intentionally so the crewmen passing them wouldn’t overhear their captain fretting over Grand Admiral Thrawn. “Eaten?”

Gilad watched him exchange a glance with the guard on the other side of the doorway — how they could communicate with the opaque helmets on was beyond him — and there was a bit of subtle head tilting before Latch gave Pik a shrug. Thrawn had also given them orders to protect and answer to him: Gilad had left his own shadows at the turbolift this time. “He won’t listen to us,” was all Pik said, and then he pressed the button to open the door and stepped aside to let Gilad pass.

_Maybe he’ll listen to you._ It wasn’t said, but the sentiment was there. Gilad paused in the doorway to study the set of Thrawn’s shoulders, the way he seemed to be simultaneously drawn up tight and slouched from exhaustion. It looked like he was attempting to fight the needs of his body. The Grand Admiral would like them to think he could keep going without rest. Thrawn, however, was a person, and he needed to sleep.

He glanced over his shoulder and nodded his understanding of the unspoken words at Pik, then stepped through the doorway and properly into the room. The door silently slid shut behind him. Quietly, though not soundlessly, Gilad approached Thrawn to stand at his left. It was a choice spot from which to appraise the situation. 

Thrawn was awake, but his guard was down and he looked terribly haggard: his uniform was rumpled, hair out of place as though he ran his hands through it out of frustration a time or two, and there were dark circles under his eyes. Gilad hadn’t seem him like this since the first time they met after the boy kidnapped the Seventh Fleet.

The likely reason for Thrawn’s disheveled appearance was easy enough to spot as Gilad’s eyes drifted to the bed. Ezra was pale enough to nearly match the sheets, save for the dark hair poking through the bandaging on his head. His face and chest were still wrapped in bandages too, and the monitor indicated he was as non-responsive as he was when Gilad last called to check on him six hours ago. There was a vast difference in hearing the results of the boy’s hours in surgery and seeing them. His appearance nearly floored the captain. 

There was a second chair next to Thrawn’s. He wanted to sit, but they were only eight months into this and still building a rapport. If Thrawn wanted him to sit, he’d be invited. Until then, he would force trembling, weary legs to hold him, and do his best to focus on Thrawn instead of his own feelings.

By his estimate, Thrawn was likely running on caf and only six hours or so of sleep. That was all either of them had had time for before the alert sirens had woken them. And now, exhausted, likely barely able to focus, Thrawn was sitting here. Staring at the child that had kidnapped them, that they’d ended up — not quite _adopting,_ but had certainly taken quite a good deal of responsibility for, between the two of them — with something that was either fear, or worry, or exhausted resignation on his face.

Gilad rested a gentle hand on his left shoulder and hoped he didn’t get thrown to the floor for it as he gently snuck the code cylinders out of Thrawn’s breast pocket and into his other hand — and from there to his trouser pocket. “Sir,” he murmured, because if Bridger was in a healing trance, it was best to keep him there, “are you all right?”

It took six seconds for Thrawn to fully registered the presence of his second-in-command and that there was a hand on his shoulder. For someone typically so frighteningly quick-witted to be running this slow—

“They don’t know if he’ll wake up,” Thrawn finally replied. Uncertainty clouded his tone. A hand reached up to touch Gilad’s before the movement was aborted. Gilad raised his eyebrows since Thrawn couldn’t see his face, but otherwise pretended he didn’t notice. Comfort. He was being trusted with Grand Admiral Thrawn seeking comfort.

Certainly, it wasn’t the first bizarre thing that happened between them since his transfer to the _Chimaera_ and his installment as Thrawn’s second-in-command and apparent new protege. Keeping up with the man was a difficult and demanding task. Thrawn habitually revealed to his subordinates very little in order to train them to infer information and learn to anticipate his plans (or so Hammerly had said when she warned him about Thrawn being a handful). Gilad and Thrawn argued on at least a biweekly basis, oftentimes more frequently, over everything from friendly spats regarding minor rule breaking the crew thought they could get away with, to major arguments held in Thrawn’s office over tactics, dwindling supplies, their ghost chase, or the boy currently in a coma before them and — to all appearances — brain dead. 

Commodore Faro, he knew from his conversation with her, did not often argue with the Grand Admiral. That Captain Pellaeon was allowed to start fights, or endure Thrawn starting them, meant something to both men. It was a strange way to be confided in, arguing with a man who needed to let go of the strain of command he was carrying, but Gilad didn’t entirely mind. Both of them needed the stress release.

Comforting Thrawn was also something he could do. Bridger’s condition had a great deal of the crew members worried, and Gilad had seen him after the boarding party returned before he was whisked off to Medical. Jedi Padawan less strong than him had survived worse, he reminded himself, and didn’t notice his hand tighten on Thrawn’s shoulder until warm fingers landed on his own.

“Jedi have always been a pain, sir,” Gilad said quietly, letting Thrawn’s hand rest over his own. One of them needed to have it together right now and he knew, just this once, Thrawn would appreciate it not having to be him. 

There were stories he hadn’t shared with his new CO about the Jedi, stories from his service to the Republic in the war against the Separatist that allowed him to at least guess at what Bridger might be going through. It was an unwritten, strongly enforced rule that no one in the service spoke about the Jedi Generals, the clones, or their time serving with them. Each fleet’s ISB Internal Affairs officer was always a little too interested to hear those stories and have a private conversation down in detention with the person telling them.

They were no longer in the Empire — and debated, from time to time, if they were even a part of it any longer — and had no ISB officers. No one was going to eviscerate him for settling both their minds on the subject of Bridger’s likely survival.

Being looked at with glowing red eyes still intimidated him but Gilad absolutely refused to flinch away from them. It was a matter of pride here: no one else on Thrawn’s flagship flinched, and so neither would he. Besides, he’d be a piss-poor protector of the peace if he couldn’t look at any different species without flinching. “You served in the Republic Fleet too, didn’t you?” Thrawn asked quietly.

Gilad nodded. “I was assigned on several missions to handle Separatists, alongside some of the Jedi Generals and their absolutely insane ideas they passed off — somehow — as strategy.” A small smile turned up the corners of his lips. In a way, this was a rather familiar situation he’d found himself in: insurmountable odds, a determined young Padawan, and a large army utterly devoted to its commander certainly smacked of the Clone Wars.

Thrawn huffed, either indignant or feigning it (it was hard to tell when he’d gone back to staring at their shared charge), and then shook his head minutely. “It was my strategy this time that caused this,” he confessed in a whisper after a few minutes, hanging his head. 

It was _not,_ because Thrawn wasn’t been holding the club that hit him on the back of the head, or the one that hit him on the front of the head. Gilad squeezed his shoulder and brought his other hand up to rest on the other shoulder. It wasn’t enough, but some of the tension leaked out of Thrawn. “Self-recrimination isn’t going to do you any good. You accounted for as many of the variables as you could. Send him out with a helmet next time.”

Thrawn’s hand tensed over his. Gilad lifted his thumb to stroke over those long fingers until Thrawn relaxed at least a little more, and used the distraction to snag the other two code cylinders. Letting Thrawn keep them meant he probably wouldn’t sleep when he could work and distract himself. “You’ve gotten attached to him,” Thrawn finally stated, the observation so quiet that it was almost under his breath. 

“You’re the one sitting at his bedside for hours instead of taking care of yourself,” Gilad responded. If it sounded like an accusation, well, that’s because it was. Still, he didn’t deny the statement directed his way because, yes, fine: somehow, Bridger had gotten under his skin too. Most of the crew was guilty. 

But most of the crew had the freedom to show that openly. As one of their commanding officers, Gilad had reservations about openly showing attachment to the person who took them all from their families without a thought to the people left behind — though there wasn’t really any way he could deny it now. Not to Thrawn.

A half-hearted glare was shot his way at the response, the slide of uniform fabric as Thrawn shifted loud in the room even with the machine breathing for the child lying pale and small on the bed. “You are,” Gilad said, again, not unkindly this time. “Did I say it was a bad thing?”

Several deep breaths were taken before Thrawn spoke again. If his temper was this frayed, then he badly needed to eat something as well. Thrawn was cranky when he was hangry. “I think I hate him,” Thrawn whispered on an exhale.

A quiet snort was his response to that, because Thrawn quiet clearly _did not._ He made sure the boy was fed, clothed as he quickly pushed through a growth spurt, sheltered, and that anything lacking in his education was corrected to the best of their current ability. Bridger only spoke Basic when he took them. He could only read Aurabesh. And while his ship-board skills were sufficient for what out-of-date ships and equipment the Rebellion was using, he had not been anywhere near competent enough to handle most of their tech. After eight months with them he had changed, had grown, had learned so much.

Thrawn took the initiative to correct those gaping defects in his education. Thrawn forced him to stick with it. And Thrawn had forever been the one to reward his educational achievements with a curt, “good work,” and perhaps a small smile with each completed module or new skill gained when Bridger wasn’t looking.

“He gets under our skin after that stunt at Lothal, worms his way into my crew, and then goes and gets himself killed.” Thrawn sounded petulant, as though he wanted his captain to believe he really hated the boy.

“Flat-lining is not the same thing as ‘getting himself killed’ if he recovers from it,” Gilad rolled his eyes at his commander, uncaring if his tone was bordering on insubordinate at this point. Thrawn needed to sleep: he sounded like a pouting child. “He’ll be _fine._” His tone was quietly insistent, intentionally meant to sound as though he knew something Thrawn didn’t. If he baited the hook right, he could throw out his reassurance to reel the grand admiral in and drag Thrawn off for a nap.

That got the grand admiral’s attention, and the next second Gilad found himself being tugged around his superior officer to sit in the other chair by a tight grip on his hand. He was glad for his quick reflexes in stashing the other code cylinders in his pocket. “You can’t know that,” Thrawn softly insisted, leaning in. 

“Not for sure, sir, no, but—” Reflexes still made him glance around the room for spies hiding in shadows. “He could be in a Healing Trance. From what I remember of the practice, it’s very inner directed, but it’s meant to speed healing. I advised Medical of it before I came in here. He could very well have done it to himself and we would be none the wiser.”

There was nothing half-hearted about the glare Thrawn shot Bridger. “Can we bring him out of it?”

“I imagine he’ll come out of it when he’s good and ready,” Gilad said with a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “In the meantime, _you_ can help him best by taking care of yourself.”

Thrawn still hadn’t let go of his hand. His thumb, longer than Gilad’s own, stroked over the back of his hand as Thrawn thought. The simple pleasure of the touch made him shiver.

_Give him a moment. He’s exhausted. Don’t read into it._

“I should sleep while he heals,” Thrawn concluded at last, giving his captain a look of gratitude. “_We_ should sleep while he heals.”

Gilad gave him a Look. It definitely fell into the realm of insubordination, but so did shouting at your CO and nothing had been added to his record for that. “_I’ve slept._ Our crew and our soldiers have slept. You are the only one I haven’t been able to send off to bed. You’ll be going now.” The captain stood and gave their joined hands a tug.

The look he was given made it clear that Thrawn was torn between actual obedience or pretending to humor his captain. The look Thrawn was given made it clear that there were two deathtroopers outside that door heavily invested in Thrawn’s health and safety, and he’d better cooperate if he knew what was good for his dignity.

Cowed into behaving, Thrawn dropped Gilad’s hand to adjust Bridger’s blankets. That much of a delay, he allowed, and Gilad wished he could be so free with the boy at the moment. But he wasn’t here for himself. This moment of post-battle stillness was about Thrawn. 

“I never wanted a child,” Thrawn confided when he straightened. The backs of their hands brushed together in a way Gilad was far too aware of. “I resent him for the response he causes in me.”

“Protectiveness?” Gilad questioned, and decided to rip off the bacta patch in inches instead of one quick pull: he let the back of his hand rest against the back of Thrawn’s. His skin was hot. So alive. It reassured him and grounded him more than it should. Later, Gilad knew he would find it unsettling that touching his commanding officer should bring him so much peace.

In the moment, he couldn’t make himself care. 

Thrawn was silent, but the look on his face was damning. “He’s done so much to warrant my spite. My hatred. And yet, I can’t bring myself to remain in that state.”

“He risked his life for those kids,” Gilad pointed out, sure that was part of the problem.

A low grumble from Thrawn was damning evidence. “I didn’t want to risk him.”

“You risk people every day, Thrawn,” he responded softly, and caught his perfectly warm hand to tug Thrawn to look at him. “What’s different about this?”

His tactic didn’t quite work. “You know what’s different.”

Gilad opted to stare at Thrawn. It was a favorite tactic the grand admiral used to make other people open up and talk: it was only fair it be used against him at some point. “Damnit, Gilad, don’t make me—”

“Say it,” he ordered quietly, eyes searching Thrawn’s. It needed to be acknowledged, the feelings both of them had for Ezra. 

Thrawn dropped his hand and sat heavily in the chair, but said nothing. Gilad took his time settling back into his, and reached out for Ezra’s hand. Perhaps showing a moment of weakness would encourage Thrawn to get it off his chest. “I never wanted a child either,” he admitted after taking a moment to consider his words. “I’ve never even seen a holo of my only biological child. Then I was given a command, and then captaincy, and now I have 37,000 of them.”

Gilad leaned back in his chair, Bridger’s hand his hostage now, and leveled a look at Thrawn that held the weight of every bit of pain and suffering they’d felt over this boy. “And now Bridger.”

A quiet sigh was Thrawn’s response. “He was never supposed to live, let alone do this.”

“I know,” Gilad said quietly, and held his hand out for Thrawn to take if he wanted to. There was no hesitation: Gilad’s hand was Thrawn’s hostage now, and it was tightly held. “But that’s not what happened. When are you going to acknowledge that?”

Silence descended again, Thrawn’s jaw tight. Gilad relaxed a little, finding it easier to do so with a physical connection to both of these men that he was stuck taking care of. His eyes raked over Thrawn’s face, over the shadows cast on him by the light of the equipment in the dark room, and Thrawn’s eyes, so piercing most of the time.

Finally, after what felt like the better part of an hour, Thrawn leaned forward and rested his free hand over where Gilad’s was joined with Ezra’s. “We never wanted a child, but we have one now,” he murmured, eyes on their hands — blue, tan, and freckled. “Is that it?”

“Yes,” Gilad replied, eyes tracking over Thrawn’s face again. “We took responsibility for him despite the situation. And the only way either of us will be able to help him now is?”

Thrawn sighed, and stood. “Fine. I’ll attempt to sleep.”

“That’s all I ask.” Gilad let himself be tugged upright, and took a moment to settle Ezra’s hand back on the bed, then another to adjust Thrawn’s hair and uniform. It wouldn’t do to let him out of the room looking quite that haggard. “Will you _please_ also eat something?”

“Yes,” Thrawn surrendered at last, and let himself be led from the room.

**Author's Note:**

> The fucking nerve of Ezra though, kidnapping people, then helping them repair the ships his parabola of purgill destroyed. Then this pungent little asshole _befriends them_ and they feel the need to do things for him! What a complete prick! Nice guy! Ugh! Getting their natural parental instincts all worked up, and then he goes and gets brained and uh... faced? Front-brained? Brained twice? That makes him sound super-smart, idk. 
> 
> Brain-dead, anyway, to all appearances, so then his new pseudo-dads have to do shit like worry about him and reassure the other kids.
> 
> Ugh! Totally annoying, amirite? I am. I wrote the fic, I get to be right.
> 
> So I might write more in this verse. I have like a hundred other things I’m writing/supposed to be writing/am writing. But that was bugging the fuck out of me and had to come out _now_.


End file.
